


(don't trip off) the glitz that i'm gonna display

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 06:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17319557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: The team's hunt for the Clairvoyant requires some desperate measures.





	(don't trip off) the glitz that i'm gonna display

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SafelyCapricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for Mir, who is the bestest Mir of all the Mirs. I love her lots and hope she enjoys this humble offering <3
> 
> (as for the rest of you, I also hope you enjoy the fic, but I hope more that you'll join me in wishing Mir the happiest of birthdays!)

In any other circumstances, Skye’s sure she would have lots of smart comments to make—they are her specialty, after all.

For one thing, she’d for sure remark on their host’s utter failure to live up to cliché; a powerful warlock like Ward (so powerful they had to get his permission before they could even enter the _state_ ) should be living in some gothic castle somewhere, one with a permanent thunderstorm raging overhead. The penthouse suite, with its river view and ultra-modern furnishings, is a total letdown in comparison—and usually, she’d point that out.

Except Ward is so powerful that, again, they had to _get his permission_ before they could cross the state line. And not in a courtesy way, oh no—they literally _could not cross_. Ever since that moment, when the Bus hit the boundary line and stalled in mid-air, the runes etched on the back of Skye’s left shoulder have been tingling, warning her that she’s walking into danger.

Or, well, they _were_ tingling. Now that they’re here, in Ward’s freaking _living room_ , the tingling has evolved into itching.

That’s never happened before. Ever. Not in the twenty-plus years she’s had them.

So, yeah. No smart comments today. Maybe no not-so-smart comments, either; Skye’s having some trouble finding her voice.

Luckily, Trip doesn’t seem to have the same problem. “We appreciate you meeting with us, man.”

“Anything for an old friend.” Ward spreads his arms, looking cheerful and friendly and not at all like he could flay the skin from all their bones at once without even gesturing. “You said you needed some help?”

“We do,” Coulson says, taking over. “Our team—”

“SHIELD team,” Ward interrupts with a tsk. “You never said you worked for SHIELD, Trip.”

“You knew anyway,” Trip says mildly.

“Still. Keeping a secret like that…” He shakes his head. “Hurtful.”

Skye takes a deep breath and reminds herself Trip warned them about this. He said Ward was _“an asshole, and a scary one, but not one who goes around hurting people he perceives as weak. He likes taking down the powerful—screwing over his fellow warlocks, mostly.”_

Compared to Ward, the team is weak. Coulson, Simmons, and Skye herself are all mid-level mages, while May and Fitz are _nulls_. And sure, Trip’s a little higher on the scale, but he and Ward are friends.

They’re not in danger. Ward’s gonna be a jerk, but he’s not gonna hurt them.

(She hopes.)

“I’m sure Trip is very sorry for the deception,” Coulson says in the let’s-not-get-distracted tone usually reserved for Skye. (Trip shakes his head and mouths “No, I’m not” at Ward, who smirks.) “As I was saying, our _SHIELD_ team is charged with hunting down a very dangerous warlock. He calls himself the Clairvoyant.”

Ward’s smirk fades fast. Worryingly fast.

“The Centipede guy?” he asks, voice deadly quiet.

Skye’s runes flare in warning. She squeezes Fitz’s thigh— _hard_ —just before he would’ve opened his mouth and said something dumb.

“So you’ve heard of him,” Coulson says.

“You could say that.” Ward makes a sharp, almost violent gesture; Skye’s not the only one who flinches, but all that happens is a bottle of some _very_ expensive looking whiskey sails over from the wet bar. Ward pours a generous helping of it into a glass that appears seconds before the whiskey would’ve hit the surface of his coffee table, and the team sits in tense silence as he downs it in one swallow. “He turned one of my men into a spy—and then killed him.”

May stirs from her silent on-guard stance at the door. “The Fourth Eye spell?”

“Is that what it’s called?” he asks, sparing her a glance as he pours another glass. “All I know is it let him see through Kebo’s eyes…and none of us had a damned clue until it ate him from the inside out.”

Yeah, that’s the Fourth Eye, all right. It’s a really, really nasty piece of spellwork—made even worse by the fact that it runs off the victim’s life force instead of the caster’s. That spell was their first clue that they were dealing with something _serious_ , someone worse than the run-of-the-mill evil mages they’re used to.

Skye’s runes flare again, but Simmons is too far away to be easily shut up. All she can do is look on, helpless, as she leans forward.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, voice full of that heart-wrenching sincerity that won Skye over in like .3 seconds. Ward must not have a heart, though; he doesn’t even look at her. “We can’t bring him back, of course, but if you’d like, I can give you the counter-spell? So you can make sure it never happens again?”

_That_ gets Ward’s attention. “And how did you get your hands on one of the Clairvoyant’s counter spells?”

His tone is on the insulting end of curious—like it’s some huge shock that they’d be able to do _anything_ against Centipede—and it obviously gets Simmons’ back up. She straightens in her seat, lifting her chin proudly.

“We didn’t have to,” she says. “I invented it myself.”

Ward sets down his whiskey without drinking it. “ _You_ invented a counter-spell…to the Clairvoyant’s spell?”

His shock is, well, not shocking. Crafting a counter-spell for a spell you created is easy: you know every piece of it, the ups and downs and ins and outs, and it’s just a matter of undoing what you’ve done. No big deal.

Creating a counter-spell for a spell somebody _else_ invented, though, that’s harder. A _lot_ harder. Skye’s spent months trying and failing to make a counter-spell for that stupid little cantrip Trip uses to keep her out of his Oreos; that Simmons managed a counter to the seriously evil and no doubt complex Fourth Eye spell would be huge even if she were a warlock. Managing it as a mage? It’s just plain unheard of.

So, yeah. Ward’s shock is totally justified. It’d take anyone by surprise to learn that the team’s cute, unassuming science mage is a grade-A, certified genius at spell crafting. (And everything else, but that’s a revelation that usually comes later.)

But Simmons must not be in an understanding mood, because her chin goes that little bit higher. “Yes.”

“Huh.” He slumps back against the couch—and though his next words are clearly aimed at Coulson, his eyes stay fixed on Simmons. Skye’s mouth goes dry. “So. What did you need from me?”

Instead of answering, Coulson looks between Ward and Simmons, frowning a little. Probably he’s just as worried as Skye is about that unsettling focus—although maybe not, since he’s missing this great opportunity to get said focus _off_ of Simmons.

Well, some things a girl’s gotta do herself. Skye summons all her courage and finally jumps into the conversation.

“Help,” she says bluntly. “We’re awesome with your everyday jerks, but a warlock like the Clairvoyant is way out of our league. We can’t even scry for the guy; kinda makes it hard to hunt him down and arrest him. What?”

She shrugs off the exasperated look Coulson gives her. If he wanted to answer the question, he should’ve been faster about it.

“Arrest him,” Ward echoes with a weird little smile. (At least he’s looking at Skye now and not Simmons.) “That’s…adorable.”

Skye stiffens. “We’re SHIELD agents, not enforcers.”

“Hmm.” He picks his whiskey up and takes a slow sip— _really_ slow. Probably he’s dragging it out just to be a jerk. “Well, I’m not really the ‘arresting’ type. If you wanted me to cross him off, that’d be one thing, but—”

“We aren’t asking you to arrest him,” Coulson interjects, placating. “That’s our job. We just need your help getting close enough to manage it.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Fitz says. (Damn it. Skye got so distracted with Simmons, she forgot to watch him.) “You warlocks all like to pal around together anyway, don’t you?”

Something flashes in Ward’s eyes—literally, there’s like little licks of flame that flare in his irises; super creepy. Paired with his pleasant smile, it’s enough to make Skye want to run far and fast.

She sternly quashes the urge. All her years of being rootless, dodging this tweaker and that hypnotist, gave her some useful instincts, but she’s a SHIELD agent now. She doesn’t run from danger; she stands, faces it down, and keeps it away from others.

(Though she might’ve rethought this gig if she knew it’d be bringing her into contact with _multiple_ warlocks.)

“Sure,” Ward says easily, in a tone light enough to make Fitz flinch. “As a matter of fact, there’s a Gathering happening in a few weeks. I usually skip ‘em, but…” His eyes drift to Trip. “For an old friend, I can make an exception.”

Trip looks suspicious. “And?”

“And what?” Ward asks innocently.

“C’mon, man,” he says. “You think I don’t remember that face? You’re about to drop _something_ on us.”

Ward chuckles and takes another slow sip of his whiskey. Kind of rude of him to be drinking and never offer any to the rest of them, by the way, but—it’s probably a good thing. If Skye had anything in her hands right now, she’d absolutely break it in surprise at the way her runes suddenly _burn_.

“Yeah,” he admits, setting his glass down again. “See, there’s something I’m gonna need if I’m going to draw out the Clairvoyant for you.”

“And what’s that?” Coulson asks, sounding just this side of suspicious.

Ward lifts one oh-so-casual finger to indicate Simmons. “Her.”

His glass shatters.

“What the _fuck_?” Skye demands.

“I _beg_ your pardon,” Simmons—well, it’s hard to snap a phrase like that, but she sure comes close. “How dare you—”

“Calm down, sweetheart,” Ward says, all amused, like it’s some big _joke_. “And you—” He frowns at Skye. “—I’ll let it go this time, but watch where you aim your magic while you’re in my home.”

Only Trip’s hand on her shoulder keeps Skye from threatening to aim her magic at Ward’s jerkish _face_ next time.

“Ward,” he starts, and his asshole friend waves him off.

“Calm down,” he repeats. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not asking for—what was your name again?”

“Jemma Simmons,” Simmons snaps at him. Obviously she’s not doing too great at the calming down thing, not that Skye can blame her.

“Right,” Ward says. “I’m not asking for Jemma as _payment_ or anything. I just want to use her as bait.”

In Skye’s estimation, that’s just as bad—using Simmons as bait means putting her directly in the line of fire—but of _course_ it gets Simmons to relax. She has _no_ self-preservation instincts, Skye swears.

“How so?” Simmons asks.

“If the Clairvoyant knows anything about your team, he’s gotta be itching to get his hands on you,” Ward tells her. “Someone—a _mage_ at that—who can counter one of his spells? He’s gonna want you either working for him or dead.”

Skye’s breath catches in her throat. The whole reason they’re pushing this _now_ , calling on outside help after spending the better part of a year chasing Centipede, is because the Clairvoyant’s started setting traps for them. They’ve assumed it was just a general get-rid-of-these-SHIELD-pests thing, but…what if he’s been after Simmons this whole time?

“Oh,” Simmons says, a little faintly. “That…makes sense.”

Ward nods. “Yep. Which makes your attendance just the thing to make sure the Clairvoyant attends the Gathering.”

Fitz scowls and opens his mouth—probably to say something super insulting—but luckily, May gets there first.

“And how were you planning to let the Clairvoyant know Simmons will be there?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Ward says brightly. “Obviously, she’ll need to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

Dead silence.

“…What?” Simmons manages after a long, long minute. Her voice is slightly strangled, but she’s still doing better than the rest of them and their silent gaping.

“It’s simple,” he says. “I RSVP to the Gathering and let them know I’ll be bringing a plus one, and then you and I spend a few weeks ‘dating’—being seen together in public. _Everyone_ will assume you’re gonna be my plus one.”

“I—I suppose, but…” Simmons looks around, for a second appearing so hunted that Skye thinks she might actually run. Which would probably be good, because dating—even fake dating—a warlock is _way_ up there on the list of bad ideas, and no way should Simmons get herself mixed up in that, not even for SHIELD.

But then their eyes meet and Simmons’ expression firms and Skye’s heart drops right to the pit of her stomach. That face Simmons is making—she’s obviously remembering the last trap the Clairvoyant set for them, the one that almost killed Skye. Before, she was angry about it.

Now—now she’s clearly guilty.

“Jemma,” Skye starts, hoping to put a stop to that nonsense, but she’s just not fast enough.

“You’re right,” Simmons says firmly. “I’m in.”

There’s a chorus of protests, but Simmons and Ward ignore them all. She’s sitting there wearing her most resolute face, while Ward nods in satisfaction.

“Great,” he says. “And there’s no time like the present, so…join me for a cup of coffee?”

 

+++

 

Jemma’s team puts up no end of fuss, of course—they’re all endearingly (and/or annoyingly, depending on the day) protective—but the fact of the matter is, Ward’s plan really is the best they’ve got. So despite the protests and the debates and the (frankly unwise) threats, she finds herself walking down the street with him in short order.

The fourth time they pass a member of the team—Skye, lounging on a bench at a bus stop; she’s doing an excellent job at blending in right up until she makes a very unsubtle ‘watching you’ gesture at Ward—he sighs.

“That’s not helpful,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Jemma says. “It’s just—”

Her voice dies in her throat when Ward takes her hand. His is warm and rough and fits, she thinks in a strange moment of girlishness, quite well in hers.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says mildly. “I’m a big, bad warlock no one but Trip knows and you’re a relatively helpless mage. Only an idiot wouldn’t be worried about my intentions.”

She’d argue that, but…well. She is a bit worried.

…And grows a bit moreso as he utterly fails to offer any reassurance on that score.

“But if this plan is going to work,” he instead continues, “our dates can’t be obvious stake-outs. So…”

There’s no warning. One moment, they’re on the sidewalk outside his building—a sunny afternoon in Massachusetts—and the next, they’re under an awning on a rainy side street.

It’s night.

“What— _what_ —”

Any other time, Jemma would be embarrassed by her senseless stammering, but—she didn’t even _feel_ that. They’ve either jumped several hours in time (unlikely; it seems pointless) or several time zones, and either way, that kind of spell takes power—takes _effort_.

She should’ve felt it. She should’ve felt the build-up, the casting, the expenditure of energy—and failing all of _that_ , she should’ve felt the movement.

But there was nothing. Nothing but the flex of his hand in hers, and here they are.

How powerful _is_ he?

“Welcome to Paris,” he says—casual, unconcerned, as if he doesn’t realize at all how his easy show of power has impacted her. “Come on; I know a great place down this way. Best croissants in France.”

“Ward—”

He cuts her off with a gentle squeeze of her hand. “Grant. We’re dating, remember?”

_Fake_ dating, she wants to remind him—but meeting his eyes, finding herself the focus of his intense, lovely gaze, she can’t quite find the words.

“Grant,” she echoes instead, and—is that her voice? She didn’t intend it to come out so soft.

Ward—Grant—smiles. Rain pounds against the awning above them.

For some reason, Jemma’s heart is beating a bit quickly.

“Come on,” he says again, rather softly himself.

She feels it this time; a spell—wordless and motionless again—settles over her, sinking into her skin and sending a shiver through her. His magic is just as warm as his hand (still clasped with hers), and it chases away the last of her fear.

That’s odd, isn’t it? He just _cast a spell_ on her without asking, _after_ taking her halfway across the world without so much as a by-your-leave, neatly separating her from her team in the process, and yet—yet she’s not afraid at all.

A suspicious voice in the back of her head, one that sounds remarkably similar to Skye, suggests that perhaps that’s the result of the spell he just cast. Maybe he didn’t only chase away her fear; maybe he _enchanted_ her.

Somehow, though…she doesn’t think so.

“Just a little something to keep us dry,” Grant says, and she believes him even _before_ he pulls her out from under the awning and proves his honesty.

Jemma extends her free hand, studying the way the rain bounces off the invisible shield he’s placed over her. It’s not a _complicated_ spell, precisely—she’s cast it herself, in fact—but it’s not an easy one to apply to another. It takes a certain combination of skill, delicacy, and observational ability (the better to perfectly cover the subject) to cast this sort of shield on someone else. To cast it on someone he’s only just met— _that_ is impressive.

And unnecessary. A simple umbrella spell would’ve done the job just as well, and required far less precision.

Is he…showing off?

It’s a ridiculous thought—and yet, looking at him, she almost thinks she’s right.

“Thank you,” she says, instead of asking, and then takes a deep breath. “So, this place you know…does it serve pain au chocolat?”

Grant smiles— _really_ smiles. It’s not a smirk, not an overly cheerful grin, not even the sarcastic beaming he kept doing during their meeting. Just a simple, honest smile. A simple, honest smile that warms her just as much as his magic did.

Jemma…might be in a bit of trouble.

“It does,” he says, and—still holding her hand—leads her down the street.

 

+++

 

By the time they reach the boulangerie, Jemma’s forgotten that this is meant to be a _fake_ date. She remembers as they find their seats (next to a prominent window)…and then forgets another three times over the next two hours.

When he finally returns her to her unamused team—leaving her with a kiss to the knuckles that nearly incites violence from Fitz—she knows she was wrong.

She’s in more than just a _bit_ of trouble with Grant Ward.


End file.
